by John Creasey
He went very still and stared up at the ceiling, for he had seen a real snag. He was going to get two men to kill two coppers; two crook-murderers who would have to be paid. Either of them might talk; what was more, each had been inside, or at least associated with crime, and each was known to hate a particular policeman. The police would go straight to these obvious suspects and they would be able to say who had paid them. Not him, of course, nor Stone, not even Si Mitchell, but a go-between. All the same, it wasn’t safe. The police might get on to Si, and if Si was frightened enough, he might name Rab Stone.
This was how fools got caught: not looking far enough ahead.
He gave a snort of laughter. Helen started, and shifted her position a little, but did not wake up. He began to laugh in earnest, and smothered the sound beneath the sheet. The solution to this was obvious once one thought about it.
The men who hate Maybell and Archer must not kill the policemen; someone else, who had no known motive, would do that. The police would immediately go for the obvious suspects, who would protest they had nothing to do with it. But supposing each had been lured to the murder spot; once it was known that they had been there, the police would simply laugh when they said they had been framed. And the police would feel positive that they had the right men.
Ryman stopped laughing.
“It’s golden,” he muttered, inspired by his own brilliance. “Golden!”
Then he thought: “But we can’t take chances with other people. I’ll have to do one job, Rab the other.”
He thought in silence for a few minutes, and went on:
“That’s it. It’ll have to be after dark. We’ll fix the cops next Thursday. We’ll snatch the baby on Friday morning, tennish, and fix the bank van Friday afternoon, two o’clock, the time it always leaves.”
He turned over, drew the bedclothes up to his chin, and closed his eyes; five minutes afterwards he was fast asleep.
Less than half a mile away, the Mountbaron family slept, the baby in a dressing-room next to its parents.
Little Grace slept at 51 Penn Street, but Smith was restless.
London slept, and so did Bournsea.
14
TWO MOTHERS
Gideon woke next morning soon after seven o’clock, and Kate turned over and began to flicker her eyes.
“I’ll get some tea,” Gideon said, and went downstairs, yawning. It was very bright outside. The first thing on his mind was the Bournsea affair, for the newspapers screamed headlines that a child had been attacked at Seaham, fifty miles along the coast; that was true, but it wasn’t connected; the local police had already caught the man. The prominence of this story betrayed the summer’s shortage of news, as well as the fact that public anxiety was really aroused.
Gideon had to make himself concentrate on the things Kate had suggested about his draft proposals; good, sound comment, to make it as simple as he could. He wouldn’t have a chance to plead a case like a barrister in court, she’s reminded him.
“I think you’ll just have to make a précis in a page or two, dear, a summary to make everyone sit up. You’ll need all this to support it, but – well, I suppose the truth is, you’ve got to frighten everyone who can help.”
Frighten everyone; that was it. And make the Home Secretary listen. Gideon still felt uneasy about the Home Office reaction to his Sunday statement, but it was a quiescent anxiety now.
He reached the office early, and decided that this was a day to behave as the acting AC and to leave Bell to take over on his own as stand-in Commander. He went along to the AC’s office, and found pencils sharpened, inkwell filled, a clean pad, everything that he could need ready; including an array of morning newspapers one upon the other. Either Rogerson had been lucky, or knew how to train staff. Within fifteen minutes, Gideon was fidgety, wanting to know what was going on. After half an hour, he found it almost impossible to sit there and go through the mass of administrative papers, as well as report upon report at AC level.
At ten o’clock, his own ‘case report’ pushed aside, he stood up. He had allowed Bell plenty of time; it would no longer look as if he couldn’t trust the CI. As he opened the door, a telephone rang in Miss Sharp’s room, and a moment later one rang on his desk. He went back to answer it.
“Will you speak to Superintendent Hill, sir? He’s been talking to Chief Inspector Bell, and would like to have a word with you if you can spare a minute.”
“I’ll talk to him.” Gideon stood very still, staring at the window, seeing not the plane trees waving gently, nor the roof of the London County Hall, but the beach and the blue sea, a fair-haired child and a dog.
“You’re through,” Miss Sharp said.
“That you, Hippo?”
“Yes, but not with the news you want yet,” said Hill, promptly. “We haven’t got any farther, George, except in one way. I cursed you for sending me that drip Riddell, but he’s come up with a good one. Got a mind if he can be made to use it. Did you kick him down here? “
“Yes.”
“Thought as much. He used to bare his teeth when he heard the name Gideon. Anyhow, he—”
Hill did not waste words.
“. . . and he’s talking to the headmasters of the different schools, there are twenty-three in the district,” he went on. “We’re going to have each school watched at lunchtime and this afternoon, and every child with that kind of fair hair followed. Right?”
“Nice work.” It was first-class. “Might be more in Riddell than I realised.”
“Thanks, AC,” said Hill. “How do you like being upstairs?”
“If I don’t like it any more at the end of a month, I’d rather be back on the beat,” Gideon said. “Talked much to Bell?”
“He’s on the ball.”
“Fine,” said Gideon.
The call had cheered him up a great deal. He went back to his notes and began to work on them, bearing in mind all that Kate had said. But he needed the fullest possible data before he could put enough kick in the final report.
He sent for Miss Sharp, and began to dictate memoranda and letters; his own voice lulled him into a sense of self-sufficiency, and somehow drowned the cries of those who sought the help of the police.
Little Grace Harrison always stayed at school for lunch, because her mother went out to work, and there was no one home until half past five in the afternoon. A neighbour kept an eye open for any childish troubles, and was always ready to go to the rescue after a cut knee, a grazed hand, or a quarrel with another child. The neighbour’s children were all older and able to take care of themselves.
That particular afternoon, she was baking.
That particular afternoon was the one which George Arthur Smith had off duty, if he wanted it, but he stayed in the shop while his mother busied herself out in the garden, where she really enjoyed herself. They had said little to each other that morning, and Smith had given her hardly any thought; he could only think of Grace. He had dreamt of her, he could almost feel the sensuous excitement as he passed his hand over her hair, and in a way she became merged in identity with other children, the two who had started to cry, and whom he had silenced.
She would be home, soon.
It was already half past three.
He sat behind the counter, reading a magazine, and serving the occasional customer. He was near the sweets, and at a spot from which he could see into the street, and the direction from which the children came.
He saw Grace.
And she was on her own.
He put the magazine aside, and swallowed a lump in his throat, then put his hand to one of the big glass jars of toffees, the kind Grace liked. He took a handful out. He looked at the door leading to the back parlour and to his mother, and he wished that she was out. Then he thought, suddenly, that he didn’t want her to be out, he wanted to go off for an hour.
He knew all about Mrs Harrison, and what time she came home, and that she wouldn’t be at the bungalow now. No one would be. He could go along
there, as if to deliver some groceries. He could . . .
The child was coming much nearer; skipping lightly. The sun in this golden spell of weather was bright on her hair, making it look like spun gold, and Smith stood up and stared at her, his hands crooked, ready to stroke that hair. He had to; he just had to; it drew him as a magnet, and he had no other conscious thought.
Grace came up to the window.
He felt as if he were being stifled by some force beyond his control.
She pressed the palm of her hand against the glass, and then touched it with the tip of her nose, flattening that tip. Her eyes looked huge and blue. He held out the sweets so that she could see them, and she looked up at him in the way that so many girls had looked up at him; trustingly. He gulped again. He beckoned her. She drew away from the window, where there was the smear of her grubby hand and the faint mist from her breath.
Then she turned and walked away, swaying from side to side, until she disappeared.
Smith gritted his teeth.
The little devil, why had she done that?
He pushed the sweets into his pocket, and went to the parlour door, then to the open garden door. His mother was bending down and turning over the soil with a trowel; there was a box of plants by her side.
“I’m going out for an hour,” he said, in a voice which he could hardly hear himself, and she took no notice.
“Mother!”
She looked round. “Yes, Georgie?”
Why didn’t she stop calling him Georgie?
“I’m going out for an hour. Take over, will you?”
She got to her feet with an effort, for her back got stiff very easily. He could hardly see her face, for instead of grey hair he saw golden, instead of lined cheeks he saw smooth ones.
“All right,” she said. “Where are you going?”
“Never mind where I’m going, I can go where I like!” he shouted at her, and turned round, strode across the little dark parlour and into the shop, and then to the street. Grace was out of sight. He had to catch up with her, and make her talk to him. He had those sweets, he would take her for a bus ride. She was bound to like a bus ride. He quickened his pace as he felt the attraction, a kind of compulsion which he could not resist; it had never been like this before, never so powerful and insistent.
He did not look round to see his mother in the shop doorway.
He turned the corner, and saw Grace, opening the gate which led to the bungalow.
His mother saw him turn the corner.
She closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands and stood there for several seconds. Then she turned round. The telephone was in a corner, a black shiny futuristic beetle. She went to it, slowly, and her footsteps seemed to drag. She touched it. There were tears in her eyes and trickling down her cheeks, and she hated doing what she knew she must do.
She said, as if praying: “If it isn’t Georgie, it won’t hurt him, and if it is . . .”
“It can’t be my Georgie!”
She clutched the telephone, lifted it, and then with a misshapen forefinger began to dial 999. She did not know what she would say to the police, but she had to tell them about the dog and about her fear.
They would only put Georgie away for a few years, whatever he had done.
She must not take the chance that he might have time to harm another child.
That was when she realised that she was positive of the truth about her son.
Grace knew that the back door of the bungalow was always unlocked, so that she could go in and get a drink, or help herself to some biscuits and a slice of cake. She was swinging her arms and her shoulders, rather more bored than usual because she was alone. The children who usually walked home with her had been kept late. It had been fun coming home at first, and she had been warned and had solemnly observed her kerb drill, but it was dull now.
She went into the kitchen, drank some milk, spilt a little and wiped it up, then went into her small bedroom, where she kept her dolls; whenever she was lonely, she went to her dolls. She picked up a black piccaninny with a big, shiny face and eyes which opened and closed, and a small, battered rag doll. She began to talk to both, gradually warming up to a kind of enthusiasm.
She heard a sound, looked round, and saw the man from the corner shop looking at her. She did not notice the strange gleam in his eyes, but did see that his hand was held out towards her, and there were sweets in it.
“I haven’t got any money,” she announced.
“That—that doesn’t matter.”
“Oo!” Her eyes lit up, she sprang towards him, and then remembered that he had corrected her yesterday, and hurriedly she said: “Thank you very much, please.” She took a toffee, felt his hand, and then felt him touch her hair. People often smoothed down her hair, and called her Goldilocks.
The man’s hand was pressing heavily on the back of her head, and he was drawing her to him. She looked at him, not really afraid, but puzzled.
“I’m going to take you for a long bus ride,” he said, thickly. “I’m going to take you—”
This was a dream come true! A dream, a golden dream, everything he wanted, everything—
A shadow darkened the doorway of this room, and a big man entered. Behind him was another man, almost as massive. Smith jumped away from the girl child, and backed into a corner, while terror was born in his eyes.
“I just came for the weekly order,” he gabbled. “I came for the weekly order, that’s all. I’m the grocer, I came for the weekly order!”
“We’ll have a talk about it, shall we?” asked the first big man. “I’m Detective Sergeant Whaley, of the Criminal Investigation Department.” Whaley smiled at the child, and then the neighbour came, hurrying because she had been summoned without being told why.
“Is she all right?”
“She’s perfectly all right,” the CID man assured her. “She won’t even know what it’s all about. Take her away now, will you? There’s no need for her to see us take this man off.”
“I came to collect the order,” gabbled Smith. “I forgot Mrs Harrison would be out, I just forgot, all I came for was the order.”
“What order did you go to the beach for on Saturday?” Whaley asked in a hard voice.
“When it did break, everything broke at once,” Hill said to Gideon on the telephone. “But Riddell’s idea was the one which really did the trick. We got on to this Harrison child through her school, like we did fifty or sixty others, but then things began to tie up. There’s been a change of postmen on this route, and we had a word with the chap who was on it last week; he described that dog to a T. It was Smith’s. Several neighbours said they hadn’t seen the dog since Saturday, once we asked them the specific question. It added up even better when we found out that Smith often goes to the beach, and spends a lot of time there, and is always giving sweets to children. We knew we had him all right,” went on Hill, for once very nearly garrulous, “but it was nearly one of those jobs which other people solve for us. Smith’s mother had suspicions, she was actually calling us when Smith was being taken away from the bungalow. No more harm done, thank God, and that’s lifted the shadow off Bournsea.”
“Couldn’t be better news,” said Gideon. “How about spending a few days down there tidying the job up? That’s if your wife won’t mind.”
Hill chuckled.
“And keep Riddell there for a day or so, but send the other chaps back,” Gideon said. “Thanks, Hippo.”
“Okay, Gee-Gee,” Hill said. “It’s a load off my mind all right.”
Gideon put the receiver down, pushed his chair back, and went across to the window. It could hardly be a more pleasant scene, for the sun was rippling on the smooth water of the Thames, gaily covered river-boats were sailing in each direction, even the London County Hall looked more beautiful. Just out of sight were the Houses of Parliament, with the Home Secretary’s Office . . . After a few minutes, he sighed, scratched his head, and returned to the desk, where dozens of letters
waited for signing.
“If you ask me, Miss Sharp could run this office as well as any AC,” Gideon said, and then grinned. “Better not tell Rogerson that!”
He sat down and began to sign.
Mrs Mountbaron, of whom Gideon had read several times in the national Press, for she was wealthy enough to be news, had last been in the headlines when the baby had been born. She lived in a modest nine-roomed apartment in a big new building overlooking Park Lane and Hyde Park. Only three hundred yards away was the small apartment, looking over the same green pleasance, where Ryman lived.
She had never heard of Ryman.
She was looking at her only child, who was sitting in a low chair which could be wheeled across the room, beating the tray in front of it with podgy hands, eyes gleaming and cheeks aglow. If anything, Clarissa was too fat, but the doctors and the experts ridiculed any such suggestion, saying that once she began to crawl and walk the puppy fat would melt away. Certainly she could not look healthier and happier.
It was a long, gracious room, with a wide window and a small balcony. The Nanny was on the balcony, collecting some baby clothes which had been spread out in the sun. A girl in her late teens, she came in while pressing a woollen coatee against her cheeks.
“They’re so dry they’ll hardly need airing, but I’d better put them in the cupboard, I suppose. Will you be all right with her for ten minutes, ma’am?”
“I think I can manage,” Mrs Mountbaron said dryly.
It seemed a shame to pick the child up, and perhaps disrupt this spell of bliss. In two minutes or in ten Clarissa would get a little fractious, and she would want to pick her up, while Nanny would fight to prevent her; Nanny was undoubtedly right, but it seemed a pity that a child couldn’t do exactly what it felt like doing for the first year or so of its life.
The mother leaned back on a couch, her legs up, a dark-haired, most attractive, olive-skinned woman. Close to her side was a small table, and on this a photograph of her husband, with her and the child; the perfect family group. Mrs Mountbaron did not consciously think this as she glanced at the photograph, but she was basking in a kind of happiness which had seemed dreamlike years ago. Two years married, and hardly a ripple had marred contentment.
